


Oh, what a shame

by notveryhandy



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Depression, Other, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-02-23 00:55:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23736487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notveryhandy/pseuds/notveryhandy
Summary: Oh.There it is. Oh.What would the past say?Nothing, they’re dead.
Relationships: The Doctor/The Master
Kudos: 9





	Oh, what a shame

They wake up in a forest in the middle of nowhere, dirt in their eyes and body aching. “Oh.”

It slips from their mouth like a curse. “Oh,” they say, because they should not be alive and they will always be alive and here they are.

They do not know where they are. There is nothing on their lips but lipstick, no name lingering anywhere.

They call themself Oh, and that is a truth. The name you choose is your only real name. Oh.

There it is. Oh, what would the past say?

Nothing. They’re dead.

* * *

Everything _hurts,_ in a way they cannot quite put into words. “Please,” they gasp, clutching their stomach and howling, even though there is nobody there.

It’s a pointless plea, a hopeless one.

Now there’s a thought: hope. They do not know why, but there is a lingering sense of having done different, having broken free, and it cuts like the truth, like acid on spilt skin. “Oh,” they gasp again, surprise and pain mingling together with ease.

A memory forms, one of the only ones. _Stand with me._

And another: stabbing, bleeding, burning. An act of suicide. Final. Then it is gone, because remembering yourself is not an option.

Move on, or else.

* * *

In the past, they stood in front of the Doctor and watched tears trickle down their friend’s cheeks.

“Why?” they’d asked. “Why do you cry so?”

The Doctor had stood there, still emotionally hurt and raw. Silent. That Doctor, like any other, was painfully moral. Looked at them with sadness and _guilt._

“Why are you sad for me? I did nothing.”

The Doctor didn’t say a word.

They think, now, which would have hurt more? The broken, breaking honesty or knowing that the Doctor no longer trusted them?

* * *

Burn your bridges when you get to them. Burn your planets when you like. Nobody left to rule them in, nobody except the Doctor and-

_Them._

There is the Timeless Child and so much immutable rage and yet they still _do not know who they are._

They burn Gallifrey, and that is the only planet they burn. It does not feel right, anymore. Even the most deserving of people.

Morality makes them feel sick, and weak, but this façade of fury is killing them from the inside out.

* * *

Wouldn’t it be easier to just sit down and...

Die? No, these are not good thoughts. It is a corruption of their basic (im)moral code, defies any rules they have ever lived by.

The dark part of their brain that never was too attached to life or self-care (or the Doctor) snickers. Whispers _it wouldn’t be so bad._

_Nobody wants you._

They know their name now: the Master. They know that they have a long and troubled history full well.

 _History_ is such a dry, cracking word which does not imply a resistance to their decisions or the hope they will never again surface. It also does not hint at revulsion or desperation or the intense denial of all they have ever been.

They sit down, and do not die.

* * *

An office job sounds fun. Okay, so it sounds like hell, but there’s not much else to do.

Do they really want to do this?

No. Sometimes questions are boringly easy to answer. Frankly, they have all the answers now, and don’t particularly like it.

Questioning meant there was always further to go. Questions meant the chance for exploration and furthering his control.

Having all the answers meant control, but the only control he could feel was over his own mind. Why, why did the Doctor have to make up everything in their life?

Easy. They knew that answer. Answers were hollow, though, and knowing everything was no fulfilment. 

Fuck this reality and everything in it.

* * *

The Master tore of their - his? Didn’t matter - clothes with the bitterness of someone who regretted everything they’d ever done.

Which, they muse, is more or less true. Even if they won’t admit it. _Here’s to yet another pile of trauma and panic,_ they think, and open a random drawer.

Inside is photographs. Nothing specific, just old faces and lost moments sitting there.

Great, even their past selves are judging them. They pick up the nearest one and start ripping it to pieces, and it feels just as awful as they’d hoped it wouldn’t.

The Doctor, too, is frozen there, grinning wildly and judging.

They slam the door shut and collapse on the floor. Gods, it's hard, living is this post-good mindset.

In this post-Gallifrey mindset.

And, ultimately, in this post-Doctor mindset.


End file.
